I want to say that I knew this… I feel like I knew this about the guards in ASiB, hahah!
And yeah, that would be a great fic omg. I wonder if anything has been written?? LOL Palace Guard John… OMG what if it was like… that TSo3 palace guard scene but John is in Bainsbridge’s place, and Sherlock is investigating his attempted murder, or is investigating a murder of a palace guard and enlists John to help him. AHHH I NEED THIS NOW.
OMG imagine Sherlock trying to puzzle out the case, pacing back and forth in front of John’s guard post, pulling at his own hair, long fingers splayed in frustration at his own inability to solve the case
He keeps throwing out all these questions, thinking to himself, and John knows the answers to half of them because he works at the barracks and knows the people in question well
And Sherlock never gets any answer to his questions, because John is on shift and can’t move or speak, but he finds that somehow ranting to the immovable soldier with the kind, amused dark eyes helps him think, helps him work
And one day he stays later than he’d meant to and he properly freezes because finally, the man he’s come to think of as his soldier clears his throat and gives him an answer to one of his questions. His shift has ended, he’s being replaced, and Sherlock’s never stayed that late in the evening before
Sherlock just blinks at him, because the man’s voice sounds exactly like he’d thought it would, but he’s funnier, warmer, spikier, and somehow fond of Sherlock’s monologues
“After I brought you tea –”
“Get. Some. Milk.”
“Demanding, John.” Sherlock attempts an unconvincing frown, sweeping the crumpled sheet entirely off the bed, wrapping it around himself with a swirl that somehow manages to be both dramatic and haughty.
“You know I take my tea with milk. You’ve brought me enough cuppas.”
“Not in bed.”
John catches the words, left behind as Sherlock stalks from the room. No. Not in bed. He half-smiles, ruefully, and licks his lips. Turns onto his front, now the sheet’s gone.
Sherlock’s gaze rakes John’s nakedness as he returns with a full carton of milk. “Milk,” he says, eyes a quick wide flash of aren’t-you-unreasonable.
“Bring the rest of the bed back to bed, then,” says John, eyeing Sherlock’s wild morning curls, his sleep-flushed cheeks. “Now,” he adds, catching Sherlock’s eye.
Sherlock drops back onto the bed, a loose-limbed impression of attempted sullenness –
“Thank you for the tea,” says John, unwrapping the sheet. He places his lips against the pulse at the side of Sherlock’s neck. Feels the strength of it; breathes in sleep-heated skin. “And the milk.”
The velvet friction of sweeping his lips across Sherlock’s skin makes him shiver, just slightly.
“John?”
“Sherlock.”
Thunderbugs
My oldest work on AO3, I’m reblogging Thunderbugs for @chriscalledmesweetieSummer Saturday Self-reblog Series. Written two years ago, it’s rated E, Johnlock, 6180 words. Looking back, there are a lot of imperfections in the writing, but I still feel affectionately towards it all the same.
“Fuck! For fuck’s sake Sherlock! I know you know how to keep your mouth shut about your deductions. I know you can, you’re not a child. I’ve seen you bloody do it. So why – why now? Sure, it’s great weather now, fuck knows how you’re still wearing that bloody coat, but you know what keep landing on us? They’re thunderbugs, Sherlock. You’ve got two on your cheek right now. We are stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere, I have no phone signal, and it’s definitely going to blow up a storm before too long.”
“John–”
“Don’t, Sherlock! I’ve had it up to here. Why the fuck did you have to say that to him? He literally tossed our stuff out of the back of the car as he drove away! Our laptops are in there!”
John stomped away down the lane, left fist clenching and unclenching rapidly. He kept his eyes fixed on the black holdall lying in the dust a few yards away. The sun beat down on the back of his neck, on the high hawthorn hedges on either side of the lane, on the gently-waving clouds of cow parsley growing under and around the hedgerows. Crossly he slapped at another of the little black thunderbugs as it tried to crawl across his eyebrow.
He was already starting to sweat in the heat. Still angry, he bent over the holdall, fussing with the straps and making a show of checking that nothing felt damaged by the bag’s unceremonious dumping out of the taxi. Sherlock…Sherlock. John was already starting to feel ashamed of himself for shouting at him, for swearing quite so much. The detective was who he was, and ultimately John wouldn’t change him for the world. But he was on a short fuse after everything that had happened with Mary, and…still crouched over the holdall, he quieted his movements, took a couple of deep breaths and practised letting his mind go completely blank. Don’t think about it now.
It wasn’t fair to lash out at Sherlock. Yes, he was an absolutely infuriating arse sometimes, but he was also the kindest and truest friend John had ever had. He had been the only one always, faithfully there for everything that had happened to John over the last year. And he knew that Sherlock had done his best to be what John needed. There had always seemed to be cases at the right time, even if sometimes they were only around a four, obviously having been scrounged up from Lestrade (and sometimes even Mycroft) in desperation. Sherlock left the house for all of them, dragging John with him.
John took another deep breath, the air clean and sweet. Slowly he stood up, letting his knees pop and enjoying the feeling of straightening his back. It was obvious they were going to have a long walk in this heat; he slipped off his cardigan and shoved it into the holdall, then rolled up his shirt sleeves to the elbow.
He picked up the holdall with his right hand, and took a few more breaths, readying himself to turn around and go back to Sherlock. Apologise for shouting. Get him to take that ridiculous coat off before he passed out in the beating sunshine.
When he turned around, he wasn’t quite prepared to see Sherlock standing on the top rung of a five-bar gate, swaying slightly as he stretched his mobile as high as he could reach while still being able to see the screen.
John grinds multivitamins and flax seed into Sherlock’s pancakes.
Sherlock slowly replaced John’s cheap toiletries with brands that smell better. He started with a half and half mixture and eventually transitioned to full bottles.
John “found” an 18th century tuning fork for Sherlock’s violin case by stalking Ebay auctions for three weeks.
Sherlock usually clicks the kettle on as soon as he hears the creak of John’s bed.
John silently removes Sherlock’s nicotine patches when he’s been in his Mind Palace too long.
The night John got dumped, he had made “that thing with the peas,” but Sarah left before he could serve it. Sherlock ate half the pot when he woke up and pronounced it his new favorite.
John once found a set of dentures on a train station bench, grimaced, and wrapped them up into his coat pocket with a takeaway napkin so Sherlock could spend the whole afternoon tracking down their owner.
Sherlock buys pre-packaged diner sugar after Baskerville until John tells him it’s quite alright, he trusts him.
When John introduced Harry and Sherlock over Skype, he laughed extra hard at Sherlock’s jokes so she could see how happy they were. Sherlock got so distracted looking at the window of their faces together that he forgot to deduce Harry.
Sherlock figured out how to permanently disconnect the street lamp that always glares directly onto John’s bed at night. City workers have tried to replace it three times.
John used his credit card purchases to convince Mycroft that Sherlock had mono for six weeks and couldn’t work any cases for him.
Sherlock secretly asked Angelo to stop putting candles between them at dinner because he saw how uncomfortable it made John.
Not even a month later, John secretly asked Angelo where all the candles had gone and could he put them back please?
Green Violin Bow 